(about that time)
Outside the sun impales itself on the street lamps. Five o’clock light settles itself comfortably in the kitchenette, and she reads the same page over and over, waiting. Annie Lennox sings softly, sadly, desperately in the background, telling her “some things are better left unsaid, but they still turn me inside out…” And she starts the page over again, waiting.
Does she cook for one? Does she cook for two? She can do either; she just needs to know. An omelet maybe, with provolone and the last of the chorizo. “This is the book I never read,” Annie Lennox sings. “These are the words I never said…these are the dreams I’ll dream instead.” She glances at the clock,listens for footsteps in the hall, returns to the top of the page.
The refrigerator coughs and shudders. Four bananas on the kitchen counter are illuminated by the sun, bright as tracer fire, turning toward over-ripe. She wonders if she has film in her camera; she wonders if she has enough sugar for banana bread. Annie sings “These are the contents of my head, and these are the years that we have spent, and this is what they represent, and this is how I feel.”
It’s still quiet in the hall. The clock ticks. “Do you know how I feel…I don’t think you know how I feel.” She turns the page, still unread. She turns the page, puts the book down, and Annie Lennox is unaccountably quiet.
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